


Sleepy

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Interrupted Sex, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Marriage Proposal, kind of, sleepy, smooches, you get the gist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow, then? Do I get to know it, or will it be a surprise to me as well as the Liverpudlian police and criminals?”</p><p>“Stop talking and <i>sleep</i>. Good<i>night</i>, John.”</p><p> </p><p>(A belated birthday present for Sarah)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarMaple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaple/gifts).



Sherlock bullied John up the stairs to the room they’d booked. His friend refused to admit to exhaustion, but could barely lift one foot ahead of the other. He leaned into Sherlock as he opened the door for them both.

“Change out of your jeans and get some sleep,” Sherlock ordered. 

“M’fine. Gotta help you figure out the… murder, thing.”

“In the morning. You’re useless to me right now.”

John looked momentarily pained by that, but the expression was wiped off his face by a lengthy yawn. He ended up nodding and pulling off his jumper, unbuttoning the shirt underneath. Although he knew the likelihood of being caught out was minimal, Sherlock kept his gaze from lingering overlong on John’s trim torso when it was bared. He made himself look away entirely when jeans were pushed down.

“You’re sleeping too, or you gonna do your thinky thing all night?”

“I’ll sleep a while,” Sherlock promised, physically pushing John onto the queen-size bed. He slid under the covers and wriggled to the far side, looking without focus past Sherlock, who swiftly changed into his pyjamas and folded his clothes back into his bag. 

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow, then? Do I get to know it, or will it be a surprise to me as well as the Liverpudlian police and criminals?”

“Stop talking and _sleep_. Good _night_ , John.”

“Mmh.” With the duvet bunched under his chin, John wiggled his shoulder, settling into the mattress and stretching a hand onto Sherlock's side. “G’night. Love you.” He sighed happily as he gave himself over to sleep.

It was clearly a mistake, a remnant of automatic behaviour from when he was dating Mary, comfortably affectionate, but Sherlock could not stop himself from breathing “love you, too,” as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed. Sleep was horrifically unlikely.

Over time, they’d gotten used to sharing a bed by necessity, but hadn’t needed to since John had moved back to Baker St. It had perhaps never been as awkward as propriety expected it to be, but when he woke to find John pressed against him, snuffling into the crook of his neck and shoulder, Sherlock felt supremely uncomfortable. Previously when he found himself - themselves - in this position, he revelled in it, but previous experience had not been preceded by explicit declarations of affection, however misplaced. He slipped out of bed and perched on one of the chairs instead, to think about the case.

By dawn, he was hunched over his laptop as it sat on the miniscule table the hotel had furnished the room with. He could hear John waking up, stretching and groaning before getting up and padding over to stand behind him. Warm hands gripped his shoulders gently, and then John was bending over, presumably to look at the computer screen, but turned his head and placed a soft kiss just in front of Sherlock’s ear. He froze.

“Good morning. I’d rather hoped you’d still be in bed when I woke up.”

Sherlock had to reply; John would expect him to say something. His mind was seared blank but for the feeling of lips against his skin and the sound of those precious words from last night.

“No, I couldn’t… couldn’t sleep.” John’s hands slid down and around him, trapping his arms as he embraced Sherlock loosely. His chin rested on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“John,”

“This alright?”

Words failed him. His mouth opened, then closed again. John drew away, but at the loss of contact he twisted in his chair to face him. John’s face was closing off.

“Sorry. Sorry, Sherlock. I thought - I must have been imagining. I thought you said -” John turned away to select clothes for the day, clutching them to his chest. He was still wearing only the boxers he slept in, and clearly felt too vulnerable.

“I did,” Sherlock burst out. “You were barely conscious; it was clear you momentarily mistook me - a figure about to share a bed with you - for Mary. I apologise for replying as I did, I thought-”

“You thought I thought you were _Mary_?” John’s expression was incredulous, but no longer unhappy. “Sherlock,” he whispered, his tone almost reverential. “Have you no idea how often I nearly mistook her for you? How - how much I wanted it to be you in my bed, or at - at the altar with me…” 

It was clear that particular admission surprised John almost as much as it did Sherlock, and he knew John would back away from this direction of conversation if he could.

“So… you meant it, then? Last night? You… love… me.”

John pursed his lips and braced himself.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“I should probably tell you I have no idea what to do now,” Sherlock admitted at length.

“Well,” John hemmed, uncomfortable. “You could tell me what you think? I mean, if it’s unwelcome, you needn’t worry, it’s as good as forgotten.”

“Don’t be daft, John,” he bit out. “I already told you. Last night.”

“Oh. You - oh.” 

“Yes, and now I have _no idea what to do_.”

John smiled like the sun breaking through clouds, and dropped his bundle of clothing.

“You come back to bed and let me kiss you properly,” he said.

Sherlock took the hand offered to him and stood.


	2. Chapter 2

John was not unfamiliar at leaning up into a taller person’s space to take their mouth with his own. He pulled Sherlock along with him as he stepped back towards the bed, hands clutching his pyjama shirt like he wouldn’t follow John and his kisses anywhere.

They stopped their stumbling shuffle when John bumped up against the mattress. Immediately he began turning Sherlock, guiding him back and down. When his shoulders hit the duvet, he put a hand to John’s shoulder.

“A moment, John.” His voice was cracked, and John searched his face with concern.

“This alright?” he asked again.

“Of course, I just. A moment.”

He shifted to lie in the centre of the bed, head propped up on pillows, and almost before he was settled John was climbing over him.

"How- how- how did you not know?" he questioned, blessing every square centimetre of Sherlock's face with kisses.

"I'm an idiot."

John breathed a laugh.

“Course you are.”

He shifted to one side, pressing firmly against Sherlock’s side and tracing with ticklish lightness down the lines of his throat, looping swirls over collarbones, dipping under his t-shirt towards shoulders. Sherlock tried to breathe, and with shaking hands stilled John’s fingers.

“Tell me again?”

“You’re an idiot?”

“No, the… other thing.”

“Oh,” teased John, feigning surprise. “That I love you?”

With some difficulty, Sherlock nodded.

“I love you,” he assured him, and Sherlock nodded again, grazing fingertips from John’s knuckles to wrist and back. John took that as invitation to continue the gentle movement.

“I love you,” he repeated as he lifted his hand, placed it on the jut of Sherlock’s hip. “This alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock rasped. He swallowed, feeling his heart pounding staccato from his chest to his pulse in his throat, his groin. “I love you, John.”

John grinned, propping himself up enough to kiss his mouth, pushing fabric to bare his hip, pressing against his skin.

Sherlock curled his hand around John's neck, hoping he would stay where he was, and John again slipped his hand under the fabric of his t-shirt, inching towards his waist.

Sherlock lost all track of time, of the entire world beyond his body and the sensations John was eliciting. The kiss was drugging, and although the stroking touch on his side was technically fairly chaste, he was steadily becoming more erect. But John did not touch his penis. He bucked his hips.

"Hang on, there's no hurry," John soothed, and although Sherlock valiantly tried to answer, he only managed a throaty noise.

"Alright, it's okay, let's get you out of these clothes, yeah?"

"Yeah," he nodded with enthusiasm.

John moved away enough for Sherlock to sit up and throw off his t-shirt, wriggle out of his pyjama pants. Then he was pulled on top of John, mouths and torsos and erections and thighs pressing together.

"Christ, you're lovely," John breathed. "How are you so beautiful?" He traced the contours of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock bit back an unexpected sobbing gasp and buried his head in the pillow beside John's ear even as his hips ground down. In a moment he had control of himself again, and kissed John's neck. He kissed John's scar, and his sternum. He ghosted breaths over the tight nubs of John's nipples, and nosed towards the musky scent of his underarms. John pushed him away but did not stop smiling.

"Ah, I'm all manky, Sherlock, that's not- ah."

"Did you want me to stop," he said to John's navel, half teasing and half terrified.

"I want you to do whatever makes you happy," John vowed.

"Good."

He tucked a finger into the waistband of John's boxers and tugged.

"I want to see all of you."

"You do, Christ, Sherlock, you're the only person to ever see all of me."

Sherlock pushed himself up to stare at John's face.

"I love you, John." It came out a little sterner than intended, but John only laughed. "I do," he insisted.

John nodded and threaded fingers through his hair.

"I know. I love you too."

They smiled at each other a moment longer, then Sherlock returned to his task. When he had freed John from his boxers he nuzzled into the hair curled around John’s cock, this time without more than a gasped “ah, Sherlock” in insincere protestation. He rested in between John’s legs.

“I meant it, Sherlock, I want to m- God, it’s stupidly early to say this. What I said before, about… being at the altar. I. Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s phone began to ring from the table, and he turned to look at it.

“Go on,” urged John. “Could be Greg with something new. That’d be perfect timing.”

“There is nothing ‘perfect’ about this timing,” replied Sherlock, scowling as he climbed off the mattress. “It’s Mycroft.” His scowl deepened.

“Take it, you berk.” John flopped an arm over his eyes as Sherlock accepted the call. “Fucking Holmeses interrupting this whole business again. Of fucking course.”

“If you’ve just said anything, Mycroft, I will let you know now I haven’t heard a word of it. John’s trying to propose to me so this had _better be important_.”

“Not in comparison, really. Do come by when you return to London, though; it may interest you.”

“You’re not invited,”Sherlock retorted, and hung up, leaving his mobile on the table as he returned to the bed.

“You can’t not invite Mycroft to our wedding,” John mumbled, face still hidden behind his arm.

Petulant, Sherlock refused to answer, choosing instead to curl up beside John, resting his head gingerly on his shoulder. John played idly with his hair and the delicate skin on the shell of his ear.

“I could… pick up where we left off,” Sherlock offered after a while, his hand on John’s hip.

“Nah,” breathed John. “This is good.”

 


End file.
